


His

by maias



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4151739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maias/pseuds/maias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing leveled a man quite like being unable to protect his woman. But Vanessa Ives wasn’t really his, was she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	His

Nothing leveled a man quite like being unable to protect his woman. But Vanessa Ives wasn’t really his, was she? She wasn’t bound to him by law, by the church or society. She was a woman who’d allowed him to be her watch dog. But still he felt bound to her in a thousand invisible ways.

She had retired silently upstairs, shaken even. And he chagrined himself for raising his voice, for treating her like a child in need of reprehension. But it was not that at all, was it? He really wanted to reprehend himself, for not being fast enough or good enough to carry all the weight in her place.

In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the inside of the cottage: a wooden table and sturdy but crooked chairs. The little sofa he now rested on, well made but hardly the cushioned luxury of the Sir Malcom’s sitting rooms. A dozen of little charms and trinkets hanging from the ceiling. A set of shelves with some coarse pottery dishes—two plates, two cups, a bowl, a teapot, forks and spoons, and an iron cooking pot. Colored little bottles and a myriad of herbs.

Inadvertently he focused his attention upstairs and sensed her tossing and turning, her breathing coming shallow and fast, troubled. He could see with precision the frown upon her brow, her pale skin with a feverish pink alight in the cheeks. He could almost smell the sweat mixing with the perfume of her hair, an exotic scent like spices from distant lands. But there was an urgency to her movements now, almost like a prey in flight and her unintelligible pleads morphed into a scream.

He got up, moved swiftly upstairs and stood still for a second, he didn’t want to frighten her. Such an antinomy this woman. Fearless and fragile all at once. Within reach and unattainable. For now he only wished to give her enough comfort to provide a good night’s sleep. He crouched carefully beside the bed and took her shoulders lightly, saying her name over and over until her eyes focused on his, only to drop to her now joined hands.

Chest heaving she uttered softly. _“I dreamt of dolls.”_

He generally would expect a little grim accompanying this revelation, but there was none.

He watched her thoughtfully and asked as softly as he could muster. _“Is that all, Vanessa?”_

 _“What?”_ She didn’t look up from the covers. _“No, there’s a great deal more.”_ But she didn’t elaborate.

He pushed a little stray hair from her face and took her joined hands with care. _“Are you going to tell me the rest?”_

 _“No. Not right now.”_ Her face was half turned away, and he could see the glistening trail of a tear on her cheek.

His father would say that a kind man—an _honorable_ man—would leave her alone. He would pretend he didn’t see the tears and would turn away. He would not trespass upon her fears and desires, it was not his place. But long ago Ethan had lost what little honor he’d ever had. And he had never been entirely favorable to the definition of kindness by which he was raised.

He touched her hair, feeling the soft strands, resting one hand on the back of her neck. _“What do you need?”_

She turned to face him, and her eyes were the brightest, most extraordinary blue in the candlelight, uncertain and haunted and as alluring as anything.

He waited, but she said nothing. _“Vanessa?”_

Her name was almost caressed by his mouth. Eyes closed, she pushed his hands away and for a moment he considered if he shouldn’t have retrieved after awakening her. If she had misunderstood the nature of his anger earlier, if she misunderstood his intentions now. But instead she moved very gently and made space in the bed for him.

For a moment Ethan simply watched her. The dark arcs of her eyelashes fluttered against her pale skin and her mouth had a worried set. Her nose was thin and overlong, the angles of her face sharp but beautiful. He always found himself having to control his gaze when he was around her. Something about the twitching of her lips when she was about to taunt him. Or the way her eyebrows winged up her forehead in disbelief. His eyes were drawn to her face like iron filings near a lodestone.

Maybe more than just a moment, for she opened her eyes in confusion and then silent questioning. He took her hands in his again and kissed them, the top of her nose, her closed eyelids, her forehead, her hair and finally climbed into bed, gathering her in. She rested her whole body on his, as if it was a habit. Her delicate hand gently stroking his arm.

His fingers brushed against her cheek, and he paused, studying the contrast of their skin tones. His hand was dark against her skin, his fingers rough where she was soft and smooth. Slowly he stroked his thumb across the corner of her mouth. So warm. He almost recognized her scent, as if he’d inhaled it in another life or long ago.

If she were a different woman, if this were a different place, if he were a different man...

Eventually her breath evened out into sleep. Ethan was glad for the momentary peace but couldn’t help staying awake long into the night, staring at the dark and imagining her **_his_**.


End file.
